Why?
by DollarBill
Summary: Illyria has many questions. Wes isn't quite sure how to answer them.


Title: Why

Author: DollarBill

Email: Goldy05403@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: Wesley and Illyria are the sole property of Joss, ME, and the WB (bastards!). Don't sue, you won't get anything out of it, I'm not making any money off this blah, blah, blah.

Spoiler warning: MAJOR spoilers for "There's a Hole in the World," and "Shells." If you have not seen the most recent episodes of _Angel_ consider this a warning.

Synopsis: Just a conversation between Illyria and Wesley. One fanfic writers way of trying to understand their dynamic.

Pairings: Wes/Fred, Wes/Illyria 

A/N: So NOT a Wesley/Fred shipper in any way, shape, or form. And I refuse to buy their great "lurve." But I got intrigued by the Illyria thing, and Fred's death kinda made me sob. So here it is. 

A/N 2: Save Angel! www.savingangel.org

Dedication: To Amy Acker because her portrayal of Illyria is fabulous. Though the idea of one of the good guys going evil is way over done in this verse, she made the transition better than anyone. Also, her portrayal of Fred in the moments right before her death made me cry for a character that I never liked. Congratulations to her. 

__

[Please, Wesley, why can't I stay?]

[I'm probably the last man in the world to teach you what's right.

But you will. If I abide, you will help me.

Yes.

Because I look like her?

Yes. ]

She's as curious as a cat.

He's not sure why he thinks that thought, now. But her thirst for knowledge and understanding is nothing short of remarkable.

It almost reminds him of Fred.

She cocks her head at him, eyes narrowing as she considers him. "Why do you watch me like that?"

He thinks. He fascinates her, he knows. With his human feelings, his grief and emotions… he's like a confusing but entertaining play. He makes her all that much more curious.

"Because I'm looking for her."

She shuffles towards him and looks into his eyes. "Winnifred Burkle. The shell."

He winces, and looks away. He can't stand seeing her alien blue orbs. Fred's eyes were brown.

"Yes," he whispers.

"And do you find what you are looking for?"

Wesley shakes his head, not trusting his voice.

She touches him. He flinches, but lets her. She touches his chin, rubbing a finger over the facial hair he hasn't bothered shaving since her death.

"This is a mark of your grief. Why?"

He almost feels a touch of bitterness. Why is it that this creature, all the irony included, holds the right to torture him?

"I no longer have the energy to bother." He turns away from Illyria and stares at the wall, his back to her. "She won't see me. Why does it matter?"

She's surprised that he has answered back with a question of his own. She ponders it, eyes wide and unblinking as she thinks.

"It does not matter how you look, for she cannot see you."

Wesley nods.

Illyria continues. "Did she love you, as you love her?"

Wesley blinks. He feels that same vein of pain open. He does not have an answer to that question. He will never have an answer to that question. Still, he answers it anyway. "Yes."

"Then why did it matter how you looked?"

He gives a tiny smile. "I think you will find, Illyria, that humans all too often rely on emotion. And emotion all too often contradicts itself."

"Then emotions are a sign of weakness."

Wesley matches her challenging gaze. Holds it. "Perhaps," is all he says.

*****

Sometime later (he can't say exactly when, days—sometimes weeks—blend together) he finds her entranced by his television set. He is reluctant to divert her attention as she stares raptly at the screen. She is kneeling in front of it, touching the corners with enchanted wonder. She presses her face foreword until her nose brushes against its surface. 

He studies her as she studies the television. 

"What is it?" she asks, without turning.

He clears his throat. "A television set. It helps us to communicate with each other and provide entertainment."

She nods mutely.

She watches television all day.

As the evening sets in, she finds him in the kitchen. He is startled to find her looking at him and fumbles as he tears lettuce. 

"You are sad," she says.

He goes back to tearing the lettuce. "I am not unhappy."

"Yes, you are. Your eyes are red. Another emotion. Another weakness. Your kind is full of them," she says, disdainfully.

Her voice is so flat, so emotionless. But it still carries her tune. And he's been thinking, all day, about how fascinated Fred had always been by television. _I like reality television_, she used to tell him exuberantly. _Some of those things break several thousand laws of Physics. It's very entertaining._

At dinner, the two eat in silence.

"Wesley?" Illyria asks, as he clears the dishes.

"Hmm?"

"Why does your kind kill each other?"

He pauses. He tends to discount what goes on in the rest of the world, his own work being gruesome enough. But he knows enough to tread carefully.

"Sometimes there are good reasons. People who do horrible acts deserve punishment."

"But who decides who is right and who is wrong?"

Wesley shrugs. "It's all a matter of personal opinion, I suppose."

"But you have killed. Based upon your own feelings and emotions. Was that right?"

Wesley slowly lifts his eyes to her gaze. "It was right."

She cocks her head. He is even more interesting to her now, he realizes. "What is this war?"

Wesley sets down the dishes, mulling over an appropriate response. "The most brutal form of a quarrel, really. When nations, entire peoples, become angry enough they use war as a solution."

"By killing each other?"

"Yes."

"Because they are angry."

Her amusement is clear in her voice. "It's… complicated. People go to war for many reasons: land, rights, freedom, politics."

She thinks for a moment. "But you are all the same. Why not live together in peace?"

"We can't."

"Why?"

"I don't… know. I don't think anyone does."

"You are strange, you humans." She rises from the table and stares out the window. "You clearly dominate this planet, bending it so it yields to your needs." She taps the glass. "And, yet, your kind is so full of problems. And instead of banding together to increase your power, you chose to wipe each other out."

Wesley comes to stand beside her. "But we are not evil."

Illyria smiles. "No. Evil does not bother to try and make excuses for its wickedness. Evil just does."

Wesley gives her a sideways glance. "Maybe."

"You are confused," she says in her flat voice. "You are sad and grieving for your loved one. Angry at me for killing her. Your entire existence is based around what you are *feeling*. The human brain is constantly acting based on emotions. You feel hollow so you drink too much, you feel angry so you eliminated those you hold responsible for your pain." She turns away from the window and stalks around his apartment. "It is disgusting."

Wesley has no way to respond. Struggling against the lump in his throat, he pours himself a drink and silently locks himself in his room. 

****

He puts her up in Fred's apartment. 

It makes him nauseous thinking of it, but logically it makes sense. She can't continue living with him and as far as most people are concerned, she still looks like Fred.

She is fascinated by Fred's bedroom. He'd cleaned it up after Illyria's first appearance. Now, she touches her things, the material on her bed, and reads the titles of her extensive book collection. "She enjoyed reading."

Wesley smiles slightly. "She did. And she understood more from one book than any of us could hope to in a lifetime."

Illyria 'hmms' and continues rifling thought Fred's things.

Wesley watches, trying not to let it effect him.

"She loved tacos," Illyria says suddenly.

Wesley starts. "How do you know?" he asks, gruffly.

"It feel it, some of her memory becomes entangled with my own. What is it, these tacos?"

"A food," Wesley whispers. "She thought they were a brilliant way to mix four different food groups."

Illyria blinks at him in incomprehension. "Food is merely a source of nourishment, energy for your body."

Wesley looks away, remembering the first days after Fred returned from Pylea. Tacos. When all other area of communication with her failed, they sent her tacos. "Food is our energy, yes, but it is more than that. It is a feeling of enjoyment and sensation. Something, I'm sure, you would find to be petty and weak," he adds bitterly.

Ignoring him, Illyria continues through Fred's room, intent on completely discovering it. She passes boredly around the bed and pauses on a book lying on the bedside table. Interested, Illyria traces the title with her fingertips. "A Little Princess," she reads softly.

Wesley's stomach takes one, slow turn. He struggles against the bile that rises in his throat. 

"I remember this," Illyria says quietly. Then, almost in slow motion, Wesley powerless to stop her, a shimmering light of blue appears between her fingertips. Fred's voice, her *real* voice, pours out.

__

[Read to me.

The Dreadhost's Compendium of Immortal Leeches?

Can that be any book in the world?

Name one.]

"No," he gasps, feeling his knees weaken and the world spin. He stumbles out of Fred's room, using the walls as support.

In her living room, he falls to the floor, lowering his head between his knees and breathing deeply. He senses her follow him, but continues to take calming breaths.

Finally he says, "She is not your plaything. You have no right to go through her memories and use them at will."

"I have no rights," Illyria says. "I do as I please."

"And you will not," Wesley says harshly, "use her voice to control me."

"You control only you. If you allow yourself to be swayed by your feelings, then you are weak. And I cannot help that."

Wesley stands and meets her haughty gaze. "Then I am only human."

"It would appear so."

"I'm human. One of those that controls this planet. You are not in control. Eons have passed since the first demon began to fight for rein. And they have never won. It is us, the weak humans, that control it."

"You are foolish." Illyria finds Fred's television set, bends down so she can study her reflection in the glass. "It is only an invention, after all. Nothing more." She turns her head sharply to consider him. "Your race is young. You fill your lives with toys. And that makes you feel powerful and safe." Illyria turns back to the TV, taps the glass, and then punches her fist through it. Hundreds of thousands of tiny shards rain down across the room. "And, yet, they are easily destroyed."

Wesley is unaffected by Illyria's show of violence. Ignoring her, he plucks a picture of Fred off the mantel. She is young, her innocence before Pylea and Angel Investigations shines through her eyes. Her smile is brilliant, full of hope for her future. It was Fred's favourite picture. She used to tell him it was because she still believed then that her life was one long stretch of creativity and opportunity.

"I think that you should know something." Wesley says in a calm voice. Deathly calm. He sets the picture back atop the mantel. "Fred was an amazing human being. Brilliant, cheerful, funny, and loving and gentle to all those around her." He pauses, finding Illyria's gaze. "And you killed her. I will stop it nothing. I will never give up, I will cross any boundary to insure that you pay. We have an allegiance. But the moment, the *moment,* I find a way to kill you, and I will, that allegiance is dead."

Wesley lets his words hang before turning his back and going to the door. Before exiting, he turns back. "Am I making my *feelings* clear?"

Illyria just regards him with part interest, part respect.

Wesley nods. "Good."

END


End file.
